I've never been in debt. Okay, that's not entirely true. Yes, I've been in the kind of debt where I had to make car payments, and I'm currently in the kind of debt that says I have to make house payments.
I've never been in credit card debt, however. Truth be told, I've never even owned a credit card. I don't trust them. I've been conditioned not to trust them thanks to many years of living with college roommates.
Most of my college roommates had this weird outlook on credit cards. Basically, they thought credit cards were magical pieces of plastic that just magically paid for things and that they were somehow immune from the the ensuing debt that came about due to excessive credit card spending.
I'll admit it: I was sort of jealous of my roommates and their magical credit cards. After all, they always seemed to have money and, if they didn't, they just whipped out their credit cards. Books? Put them on the credit card. Food? Put it on the credit card. Night out at a strip club? credit card.
And yet there I was writing checks and budgeting like a fool. I remember thinking that I was doing everything all wrong. I mean, there I would sit, meticulously lording over my finances, while my roommates went waltzing all over town swiping their credit cards with the careless glee of a six-year-old with a loaded pistol.
Then, one year, I was a roommate with a guy named Chad. Chad was actually a former high school classmate of mine. He was, and is, a tech-head. He's one of those guys who was born to know technology. Way back in elementary school, he taught me how to write simple programs for the Apple IIc, and he always just seemed to know everything about computers.
But he didn't know shit about personal finances. He whipped out any one of his many credit cards with the swiftness and ease of a Old West gunslinger. By the time we became roommates, he had already accrued over $10,000 in credit card debt.
I remember thinking what an incredibly large amount of money that seemed to be, especially when I factored in the understanding that he also received financial aid, and that he also worked. Granted, he worked at the local Brach's candy factory on the Gummi Bear line, which paid about as well as you might imagine, but it was still money, so I came to the conclusion that old Chad was a pretty carefree spender.
Well, one day, I popped into Chad's outrageously messy room where I noticed, tucked between two huge bags of pilfered defective Gummi Bears, a credit card notice that was slugged "Urgent!" and another that was slugged "Immediate Payment Required" and still another that read "We Break Fingers And Toes."
Then the calls started coming in, usually two or three a day. "Is Mr. Haugen available? We really need to speak with him." No, he's not here. "Are you sure you're not really Mr. Haugen?" Yes, I'm sure. "Well, when he comes in, have him call Mike at Discover immediately." *sound of shotgun cocking* Will do.
Chad was masterful when it came to avoiding creditors. He always seemed to leave the apartment just two or three minutes before a creditor called. It was like he had some sort of sixth sense. Which was all fine and dandy, except that I ended up being the intermediary between Chad and the creditors, so I got to absorb all the impatient anger and suspicion of basically every credit card company on the planet.
It was the day a creditor appeared, in person, at our doorstep that I realized Chad's debt situation was probably more dire than Chad cared to admit. There was a knock at the door, I answered, and a gentleman in a suit that looked both impressive and threatening stood before me. He asked to see a Mr. Chad Haugen, at which point I heard a little scuffling emanating from Chad's room as Chad scurried out the back entrance which, conveniently, was located at the far end of his bedroom.
We chatted together, the ominous creditor and me, for about an hour, waiting for Chad to get home, even though, of course, there was no way in holy hell Chad was going to make an appearance while that guy was in our apartment. I even had to produce my ID, so the creditor was satisfied that I wasn't, in fact, Chad Haugen.
After that, I believe, Chad ended up getting a loan from his parents, or somebody, so he could pay off his credit card debt at least enough to keep the creditors at bay. He eventually got a job working at IBM, which was a long-assed commute from Winona to Rochester, but paid a whole lot more than the Gummi Bear line.
As for me, Chad's experience with credit cards pretty much scared me away from plastic for good.
Ah, Sweden
You know, if there's one thing I always want after a long day of work, it's a fresh pair of undies, preferably of the paper variety. Actually, no it isn't, but according to a recent Reuter's news report, we men are hankering for an undie change on a regular basis, and so are you ladies out there.
STOCKHOLM (Reuters) - Europe's biggest fashion retailer, Sweden's H&M, has launched wear-once paper panties for the summer.
Although I have never heard of H&M, I can only assume they know fashion, mainly because they profess to be experts in fashion. Regardless, they're "launching a new line of panties," which immediately conjures images of the shuttle carrying Victoria's Secret to the International Space Station.
RUSSIAN SASHA: Ah, zank you, Comrade. My once white pantiez are now deep yellow, so zis pair of paper pantiez iz much appreciated. Zank you for making my ztay on zis zpace ztation more comfortable.
Anyway. . . "They are on sale now. They are good to have in your handbag if something unexpected happens, if you lose your luggage, or you exercise and forget to take a change of underwear with you," H&M's spokeswoman Anna Carin Bjorne said.
"Oh, shit! I lost my luggage. It's a good thing I have a crumpled pair of paper undies in my purse! Whew! *crumple, crumple" Sure, they feel like origami, but at least I'm wearing something!"
By the way, I'm not a woman, but do "unexpected things" happen to you females of which I'm not aware? Do you get abducted by aliens on a frequent basis, or do you just pee yourself all of a sudden? Granted, I'm aware that menstruation can happen at unexpected times, but is it frequent enough to require paper panties?
The panties are designed as one-size-fits-all "G-strings" and sold in small packs of three in red, green and black.
Ah, good, different colors. Because most people wearing temporary paper panties want to be wearing them long enough to a) have someone see that they're wearing paper panties and b) comment on their color. The only saving grace is that most men will be looking at the ass cheeks exposed by the thong rather than perusing the texture to decide if the underwear is paper or elastic. But wait, these aren't yet for men. . .
There are no paper underpants for men, but designer Camilla Thulin was quoted by tabloid Aftonbladet as saying the idea could appeal to many men.
"Many guys don't change their underpants every day. It would be perfect to sell paper underpants at petrol stations," she said.
"Um, yes, I had $18 in gas, and could you give me a Diet Pepsi, a lottery card, and, oohhhh, I need some of those paper undies. Why? Never mind that you curious jerk!"
Seriously, what's going on in Sweden that paper underwear would be perfect for the male population? These are things investigative journalists should be pursuing.
According to a test group assembled by Aftonbladet, the paper thongs are strong but uncomfortable.
No shit.
Beware the Letter to the Editor
I'll be the first to admit that I probably shouldn't have sent it. I should have sat on it and let it stew and settle. But, no, I had to write it then and there and send it without hesitation.
The "it" I'm referring to is a letter to the editor I wrote to Rochester's bastion of local news, the Post-Bulletin. I was a little perturbed that the P-B had dedicated front page, weekend edition space to an article about a cat that had been doused in some sort of flammable liquid, set ablaze, and left to die near a dumpster outside a local mall. Was this news? Perhaps, but definitely not front page, weekend edition news. This was something that should have been buried in the E section, just under a story about unclogging toilets with chopsticks, or some other such drivel.
So, with a head full of half-formed thoughts and a whole lot of irritation, I drafted a letter to the editor that went something (okay, exactly) like this.
Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me my vision is terrible. Tell me I didn't see a story about a cat as front-page news in the weekend edition.
Tell me the P-B newsroom actually has substantive news to cover beyond an article about a blazing cat. Tell me their writers are not sent out to do follow-up articles about blazing cats. Tell me that editorial meetings at the P-B don't consist of cat talk.
And if you can't tell me any of this, tell me why the P-B wasted so much newspaper space on such a stupid story.
It was a cat; It was not news.
Ryan Rhodes
Rochester
My mother was quick to call me when she saw this in the paper, and she said, "people reading this would never guess you write for a living." Uh, oh.
I'm currently being lambasted by several area residents who are outraged that I'm such a moral demon. I'm being held up as a pet hater of the highest order. Granted, I am having a great time reading their responses in the P-B's letter to the editor section, but I'm thinking I'd like to see the letters subside. I like stirring the pot from time to time, but I'm starting to feel as if I jumped into the pot and am busy marinating in it.
Just for the record, I am not a pet hater. I actually like animals. As a child, my family kept two dogs and I like both of them immensely. I was simply trying to state my displeasure at seeing a story about a cat on the front page. Instead, I've prompted such angry responses as:
'Just a cat' attitude is saddening
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
Contrary to the disturbing letter to the editor by Ryan Rhodes on June 20, the story about the cat that died after being sadistically set afire was unquestionably deserving of prominent news coverage by the Post-Bulletin.
People like Mr. Rhodes, who opines that "it was (just) a cat," sadden me with their attitude that somehow only human life has value.
When will more of us learn that, as the most advanced creature on the planet, we humans are responsible for the care and well-being of all God's creation?
Bruce R. Larson
Rochester
I think Bruce is telling me that I'm the most advanced creature on the planet, which was really nice of Bruce to say.
Animals need compassion
Monday, June 24, 2002
This letter is in response to Ryan Rhodes, who couldn't believe the Post-Bulletin would waste so much time and space on the story about the "blazing cat."
Apparently, Mr. Rhodes doesn't realize that this deplorable act affects us all.
It is frightening to know there are people out there who think it is a great sport to torture animals. Do you suppose that animals don't feel pain like humans do?
It takes a very sick mind to think there is anything even remotely funny about making an animal suffer. What if the people who burned the cat derived so much pleasure from it that they try torturing a child next time?
It's a shame that people haven't been taught that it is not OK to be cruel to animals, even if it is "just a cat." Try showing some compassion for the defenseless animals who are at the mercy of human beings.
Janice Sullivan
Wabasha
D'oh! Why did I say "blazing cat?" Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
There were many other such letters bashing my poorly thought out letter, but these give you a general idea of where I'm at.
Fun With Geology
There's was a solid relationship, based on years of building a foundation of familiarity. Yes, Kimberly and Steve had a rock solid love that could not be shaken, and they knew their feelings for each other could move mountains.
"Ah, my little Kimberlite," said Steve over breakfast one morning. "I can look at you for hours and marble at your beauty. I love to bury my face deep into your crenulation cleavage and work my hands gingerly over your skin's palisades texture."
"That's gneiss, Steve," said Kim, batting a coy eye. "And I would like to rip that chert off your body and work my tongue over your whiteschist. Yes, I would truly enjoy ravaging your muscovite body. Perhaps dunite I'll allow you to satiate your volcanic libido."
"I can't wait until dunite!" exclaimed Steve, his calcite vein pulsating noticeably. "Even now my hands tremolite in anticipation. It's obvious that we both want it, that we share the same sediments, so let's not talc anymore."
"Patience Steve," teased Kim. "You've obviously built up quite a sexual apatite. I'm sorry to put you through this, but you must sulfur through until dunite."
All right, all right people. I can hear your groans and hisses from here. I'll stop already.
When Dodge Ball was Dodge Ball c. Ryan Rhodes, Oct. 24, 2001
This column is not about anthrax. While I sat and pondered the topic for this week, I dismissed anthrax both because it's tough to think up a good anthrax joke, and because you can find out everything you never wanted to know about anthrax pretty much everywhere else. I'm fairly certain I heard Barney the Dinosaur singing a little diddy about anthrax early last week: "Infect you. . . Infect me. . . Infect one more, so now there's three."
No, I decided to dedicate this column to the disturbing trend in America's schools to ban the time-honored grade school activity of dodge ball. Apparently, jittery school officials and parents of less-than-athletic children have managed to curb the dodge ball practice in several grade schools nationwide. This deeply saddens me. The reasoning, according to dodge ball detractors, is that the game instills violence in students and enforces the mentality of jocks versus nerds, with the jocks being those who hurl the balls, and the nerds being those struck by them.
Now, I'm a product of the dodge ball era. What's more, I'm a veteran of the era when dodge ball was dodge ball, when the game was played with debilitating rubber balls, not the Nerf contraptions of today. We used thick, rubber, half-inflated burgundy spheres that included a slightly raised star pattern, presumably for a better grip. Any face unfortunate enough to come in contact with a high velocity sphere would wear a painful star pattern for several hours. It was generally believed in school yard circles that these balls were originally created as top secret World War II weapons that mysteriously found their way into our classroom toy boxes.
I realize the absurdity of a 26-year-old male invoking the phrase "back in my day," but back in my day, dodge ball was the passion of the morning and afternoon school yard. Sides were quickly organized through the demeaning but necessary practice of team captains picking members. I can honestly and proudly say I was rarely the last one picked. In fact, I was often in the middle of the pack, which, oddly enough, is where I find myself today. Anyway, I attribute my dodge ball skill to my early realization that it stung like crazy to get hit by an oncoming projectile. Ducking and dodging came naturally after that.
I was also quite good at catching, which was a highly sought after skill because, if someone caught a ball, his or her team was able to reclaim one of its tagged out members, while at the same time disposing of the person who threw the ball. Therefore, I commonly heard the phrase, "We gotta get Rhodes out early." I hated that.
In addition to the use of rubber weapons of death, my school was chock full of farm kids and kids who developed physically way, way, way ahead of schedule. I knew I was in trouble when lunch boxes included Gillette razors so my buddies could shave at noon. In other words, there was some dangerous muscle behind roughly 80 percent of every hurled ball.
Each game started out tentatively, with no one really wanting to charge the line and throw their ball at a team consisting of well-armed opponents. So, we normally would huddle up and think up a strategy involving the sacrifice of a team member to draw the enemy fire. Usually, the sacrificial lamb would have a name like Erwin, a poor soul who wore taped glasses because he had been nominated for the same task several times before. Poor Erwin.
Once Erwin exited with a star pattern emblazoned on his face, the real fireworks ensued.
There was some real bravery exhibited on the dodge ball field. Team members would sacrifice themselves to save a good catcher, or to simply retrieve a ball bouncing uselessly in no-mans land. The sharp smack and howl of soldiers being tagged by rubber torture devices reverberated throughout the game, and games could last an entire hour if you had good catchers on your team.
I learned a lot by playing dodge ball, namely that I could be smacked in the groin by a ball thrown by someone who professed to be my friend just half an hour earlier. It was a school yard version of the corporate ladder, where you could trust no one.
In addition, after playing dodge ball for hundreds of mornings and afternoons, and getting hit countless times by speeding rubber projectiles, I'm really not that scared of anthrax.
